scowling face. He barked the same words again, only louder. In an instant, Anton came to her side, calming her with a light touch at her back. He spoke to the officer, then reached into his back pocket and drew out a thin maroon booklet, the domestic passport Russians were required to carry.
“He wants to see your documents,” he said, quietly. “Do you have them?”
She pulled her passport, visa and registration from her purse and waited nervously as the officer compared her face to her photos. Satisfied, he handed them back, then inspected Anton’s passport with a critical eye. “
Ya slyshal o vas
,” the cop said. He almost looked embarrassed.
They spoke for a moment, and Anton nodded. The cop removed a vinyl book from a pouch on his belt. He opened to a blank page.
“What did he say?” Carrie whispered, as Anton wrote in the book.
“He recognized me. His daughter skates, and she’s a fan. He wants our autograph.” He gave the book to Carrie. “Her name is Ksenia.”
She hadn’t any idea how to spell the girl’s name, and could only read one word of what he’d written, but she carefully printed “Кэрри” beside his “Антон” and gave it back to the officer.
* * *
They ate at an Italian café opposite the Kremlin. The food was delicious and the wine, superb. As Anton poured the last of it into their glasses, Carrie leaned back in her chair, contentedly full and enjoying the kiss of the evening breeze. She sipped her Chianti. “What did you write to that policeman’s daughter?
“What I usually write. ‘Skate proud’ if person’s a skater. If not, just my name.”
“It was nice of you, considering her dad was so mean.”
Anton shrugged. “He’s just family man doing a job. They’re not paid to be friendly.”
Most people she knew would have been outraged. To Anton, it seemed like business as usual. She suspected it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Across Red Square, the Kremlin wall lights blinked on. The pretty sight didn’t completely erase its sinister air. She looked over at him, experiencing a stir of concern. “If we completely stink at Nationals and don’t make the team...you won’t get sent to Siberia or anything, will you?”
He chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Scrubbing Kremlin toilets maybe, but nothing to worry you.”
She smiled at his joke, but still felt uneasy. She glanced right and left, as if the KGB were listening at the next table. “It’s not still...like that, is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. “We’re like any country, Carrie. Some things are very good, others less so. But it’s not like it was. Anyway, it’s where my family is, where my friends are.” He looked around, shrugged one shoulder and smiled again. “Home.”
His honest words struck a chord of envy, though she had no desire to live in a place with daily snow, embalmed dictators or scary cops. Despite her love of sunshine, she was glad it was no longer rising quite so early. Though this was a foreign country in every sense of the word, to Anton, it was home. A place he was happy, close to people he loved, who loved him. Not a bad life, when you thought about it.
Her guard rose, but tonight she didn’t want to hide behind barriers. She didn’t want to think about Amsterdam, why he didn’t remember, or what might happen if he did. She didn’t want to think about Dad and how this might affect him. She only wanted to enjoy this beautiful summer night, in an unexpectedly lovely city, with a handsome guy who cared that she’d been alone on her birthday. It was surprising to feel this comfortable with a Russian. Surprising, but nice. “When I was growing up, in movies, Russians were always bad guys.”
“I’ve seen some of those movies. Spies or mafia, take your pick. In ours, Americans are spoiled little rich girls with too many suitcases.” He swirled the wine in his glass and gave her a lazy smile.
“Come on, I wasn’t that bad,” she said, liking
“He wants to see your documents,” he said, quietly. “Do you have them?”
She pulled her passport, visa and registration from her purse and waited nervously as the officer compared her face to her photos. Satisfied, he handed them back, then inspected Anton’s passport with a critical eye. “
Ya slyshal o vas
,” the cop said. He almost looked embarrassed.
They spoke for a moment, and Anton nodded. The cop removed a vinyl book from a pouch on his belt. He opened to a blank page.
“What did he say?” Carrie whispered, as Anton wrote in the book.
“He recognized me. His daughter skates, and she’s a fan. He wants our autograph.” He gave the book to Carrie. “Her name is Ksenia.”
She hadn’t any idea how to spell the girl’s name, and could only read one word of what he’d written, but she carefully printed “Кэрри” beside his “Антон” and gave it back to the officer.
* * *
They ate at an Italian café opposite the Kremlin. The food was delicious and the wine, superb. As Anton poured the last of it into their glasses, Carrie leaned back in her chair, contentedly full and enjoying the kiss of the evening breeze. She sipped her Chianti. “What did you write to that policeman’s daughter?
“What I usually write. ‘Skate proud’ if person’s a skater. If not, just my name.”
“It was nice of you, considering her dad was so mean.”
Anton shrugged. “He’s just family man doing a job. They’re not paid to be friendly.”
Most people she knew would have been outraged. To Anton, it seemed like business as usual. She suspected it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Across Red Square, the Kremlin wall lights blinked on. The pretty sight didn’t completely erase its sinister air. She looked over at him, experiencing a stir of concern. “If we completely stink at Nationals and don’t make the team...you won’t get sent to Siberia or anything, will you?”
He chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Scrubbing Kremlin toilets maybe, but nothing to worry you.”
She smiled at his joke, but still felt uneasy. She glanced right and left, as if the KGB were listening at the next table. “It’s not still...like that, is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. “We’re like any country, Carrie. Some things are very good, others less so. But it’s not like it was. Anyway, it’s where my family is, where my friends are.” He looked around, shrugged one shoulder and smiled again. “Home.”
His honest words struck a chord of envy, though she had no desire to live in a place with daily snow, embalmed dictators or scary cops. Despite her love of sunshine, she was glad it was no longer rising quite so early. Though this was a foreign country in every sense of the word, to Anton, it was home. A place he was happy, close to people he loved, who loved him. Not a bad life, when you thought about it.
Her guard rose, but tonight she didn’t want to hide behind barriers. She didn’t want to think about Amsterdam, why he didn’t remember, or what might happen if he did. She didn’t want to think about Dad and how this might affect him. She only wanted to enjoy this beautiful summer night, in an unexpectedly lovely city, with a handsome guy who cared that she’d been alone on her birthday. It was surprising to feel this comfortable with a Russian. Surprising, but nice. “When I was growing up, in movies, Russians were always bad guys.”
“I’ve seen some of those movies. Spies or mafia, take your pick. In ours, Americans are spoiled little rich girls with too many suitcases.” He swirled the wine in his glass and gave her a lazy smile.
“Come on, I wasn’t that bad,” she said, liking
Similar Books
